Susan Carroll Read Online Free Page B

dropped remarks had changed Phaedra's entire
estimation of the man she had come to confront.
    Mysterious. . . never heard of before? But
her grandfather trusted few men and liked even fewer, reserving a
special antipathy for foreigners. His sudden friendship with this
marquis seemed all the more puzzling. The rogue must be possessed
of a great deal of charm; she could scarcely contain her impatience
to meet him. But, tired from a day's hard journeying, she was in no
humor to wait much longer. Thanks to her grandfather's refusal to
send his carriage, Phaedra had been obliged to travel upon the
common stage, squashed between a fat farmer's wife and a shopkeeper
smelling of fish. Her widow's jointure was small, and the cost of
her fare had made a considerable dent in her meager savings. This
fact only added to the grudge she harbored against the unknown
marquis.
    Her irritation increased with her growing
discomfort in the stuffy ballroom. Despite the fact it was too
early for the unmasking, she removed the velvet, which had begun to
chafe the sensitive skin beneath her eyes, and stuffed the mask in
her knotted purse.
    Refusing several invitations to dance,
Phaedra kept her eyes fixed on the doorway. She studied the few
late arrivals, one portly gentleman whose garters peeked out
beneath his breeches, the other a gangly youth who'd affected the
style of the Macaronis, his hair a mountain of powdered frizz.
    Damn Muriel. Why must she play at these
games? Phaedra would never be able to guess which man might be the
marquis. Thrusting aside another hopeful dance partner, she moved
forward, determined to end this nonsense by making blunt
inquiry.
    The next instant she froze where she stood.
Another man strode in behind the other two. Sweeping off a great
cloak of black silk lined with scarlet, he flung it to a footman,
the candlelight playing over a broad pair of shoulders covered by a
cream-colored satin coat in the first mode of elegance. His
white-powdered hair was pulled back in severe style, tied in a
queue at the nape of his neck. He wore no domino, his only effort
at disguise the silver mask concealing the upper portion of his
face. Why then, Phaedra wondered, did he possess such an aura of
intrigue?
    Perhaps it was the way he moved. He stepped
forward into the room, conveying an impression of aloofness, of
isolation even in the midst of the crowd.
    Phaedra jumped as the bone sticks of a fan
rapped her on the shoulder. She tore her gaze from the man to
confront Muriel's glinting eyes. "Well, my dear, may I not present
you to the marquis? It is a meeting I would not miss for worlds, I
assure you."
    Phaedra nodded, her heart giving a sudden
thud. She followed Muriel, hardly watching where she was going, her
eyes drawn to the man who was as yet oblivious to her
existence.
    He must be handsome, she decided from what
she could see of his features, but in a cold sort of way. His lips
were frozen in an expression of hauteur; his jawline was perfectly
chiseled, as though carved from granite.
    "My dear Marquis," Muriel said, propelling
Phaedra forward. "You have arrived at last."
    " Bon soir , mademoiselle." As he turned
from greeting Muriel to encompass Phaedra in his bow, she saw the
eyes that glittered behind his mask, narrow slivers of ice-blue.
Try as she would to suppress it, a shiver swept through her.
    “My lord, you must allow me to present a dear
friend of mine," Muriel began, but the marquis interrupted her.
    "Introductions at a masked ball,
mademoiselle?" he mocked. "You will destroy all the evening's
mystery."
    Muriel giggled. "Alas, sir, I fear my friend
is far too eager for your acquaintance to await the unmasking. Lady
Grantham, may I present Armande de LeCroix, the Marquis de Varnais.
My lord, the Lady Phaedra Grantham. "
    " Enchante , madam." His voice was low
and seductive, steel sheathed in velvet.
    Phaedra saw no sign that he even recognized
her name. Yet he must, since he had obviously felt it his duty to
keep her